Thoughts on Death

On Death

When someone dies, we get to choose whether we remember the good or the bad things they left behind. How are we supposed to find the right balance between romanticizing and antagonizing someone we thought we loved.

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When my great grandmother died we threw out her possessions. She left everything to my mother, who gave it to her father. I don’t think my great grandmother knew how to love. We scattered her ashes in the park outside her apartment, I remember falling from the swing.

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They say that after you die your body weighs twenty one grams less than when you were alive, it’s supposed to be your soul leaving your body. Twenty one grams. Doesn’t sound like it’s enough.

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The dead live only in the minds of those who knew them in life. What does it feel like when no one can remember you? How does that emptiness differ from being ghosted in a group chat?

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I made a road of zempazúchil from the door to the living room. You called it “Mexican Marigold” will you also americanize the name of my dead grandfather?

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Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. When I die, I’d like to grow into a daisy, maybe become a part of a flower crown. Rather than something else to be dragged along.